


The Adventure Of The Boulevard Assassin

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [62]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, Assassination, Dogs, England (Country), F/M, France (Country), Government, M/M, Monks, Religion, Revenge, Slow Burn, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, cover-ups
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-31
Updated: 2018-07-31
Packaged: 2019-06-19 10:44:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,968
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15508293
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: An assassin disappears, and several governments are desperate to find him. Sherlock works out what has happened, and once again has to deliver justice rather than follow the letter of the law as he and Watson visit Holland but do not leave England.





	The Adventure Of The Boulevard Assassin

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FionaMaeReadorDance](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FionaMaeReadorDance/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

Murderers come in all shapes and sizes, and different disguises. And the killer whom my brother Sherlock both found and did not find in a remote Fenland retreat was most definitely proof of that particular old saw. Although Sherlock was convinced that he would never kill again.

Note: Owing to an error in the editing of Watson's notes in the case of _The Golden Pince-Nez_ his reference to _'Huret est arrêté'_ (the headline in a French newspaper at the time) was transcribed as 'the arrest of Huret'. The French verb _arrêter_ actually translates into English as 'stop' rather than 'arrest' and in this case Monsieur Huret was not arrested but _was_ stopped - permanently! Mr. Hyacinth Strange has since taken another name and emigrated to South America, but upon being contacted by telegraph did (to my surprise I might say) grant permission for the publication of this story.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

In most of my friend's cases, matters started with his help being requested and ended in a successful conclusion. However, this particular case was somewhat different. It was unpublished at the time for two reasons, the first of which was that Holmes (who was always far too hard on himself) counted it as a failure when 'solving' it was virtually impossible given the circumstances. The second reason was that, as so often, it involved the application of justice rather than the law, and allowing a man who was guilty beyond a shadow of a doubt to go free. He had to be allowed to live out the rest of his life in peace.

To begin with, I must explain certain events that had recently occurred in Great Britain's old enemy, new ally and political basket-case across the English Channel, to wit France. That country was as much of a mess as usual, and a run of political misdeeds and mishaps had culminated in the assassination of President Carnot shortly before this case happened. Indeed I have every reason to suspect that the appalling Dreyfus Affair, which began later that same year, was an attempt by the new regime to solidify their position. I do not know if there is a French word for shame.

One of the new regime's opponents had been a Mr. Didier Étrange, a lieutenant in the army who had married an Englishwoman, a Miss Charlotte Mayberry. Two days after the assassination of the president the couple themselves had been shot dead at their home in Le Mans, almost certainly by order of the new regime, but their only son Hyacinth had himself managed to shoot and injure the attacker who, it soon emerged, had been none other than the infamous Huret, the Boulevard Assassin. Mr. Hyacinth Strange, eighteen years of age and clearly desirous of seeing nineteen years of age, had not unnaturally decided to quit France, moving to Lincolnshire and a small house recently acquired by his English grandparents.

It will be understood therefore that it was in the interests of just about everyone involved to find Huret, of whom so little was certain that we did not even know if that was his first, his last or even his real name. The new French government was anxious to stop him (permanently) from exposing their criminality, whilst the British and German governments were seeking him to either hand him over to the French or get him to talk and embarrass Paris most horribly. The hunt for Huret was on – and we were about to become part of it.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Despite having looked from time to time at a certain catalogue appertaining to a certain business run by a certain consulting detective's eldest brother and his lover, I had my own ideas about what constituted good looks. Indeed, it was one of my occasional moments of pleasure that Holmes himself looked considerably better now that he had given up that dreadful syringe of his, although he would I was sure always be gaunt. Each civilization has its own ideas as to what true beauty is and the young gentleman currently sat in the famous fireside chair at Baker Street, Mr. Hyacinth Strange, had that which the Ancient Greeks captured so well in their statues, his fine physique and fair curly hair setting off a boyish yet manly face. It was the sort of figure that one sometimes seems advertising gentleman's nightwear in the papers and immediately dismisses as too idealized because no man could look that good.

I was not jealous, of course. 

“I am passing through London after seeing my Uncle Geoffrey”, our visitor explained, “and I wanted to call in on you, Mr. Holmes. I know that you sometimes take cases that seem strange in the extreme, but what little I have to lay before you today is as insubstantial as a summer breeze. Yet I find it puzzling, and given the notoriety of the base matter I should value your opinion.”

Holmes smiled at him.

“Pray proceed”, he said. 

“As I am sure you both know”, the young man began, “I was there when that vile Huret killed my parents. I was only spared because my late father, showing great foresight, had trained me up in the use of a gun. I shot the rat and managed to hit his principal hand, which prevented him from turning his weapon on me. He himself managed to escape and has disappeared despite what I am sure are strong efforts to locate him by more than one country.”

“I was physically uninjured in the attack, but the doctors insisted that I spend some time recovering from the shock. It was during that time that I acquired Rover. He was a stray dog whom I found going through the rubbish outside my house. A mongrel, but I took to him at once. As you know the British authorities rightly insist on a period of quarantine for animals coming from the Continent, so once I had had him checked out over there I sent him on ahead. I was exceedingly fortunate that my Uncle Geoffrey lives in Deal, quite close to Dover where Rover was kept, so I could stay there and visit him until his time was up. We then repaired to my grandparents' house – they had just purchased it for their retirement, but they have very kindly delayed their move so I could use it for a while whilst I look for something permanent. It is in the tiny Lincolnshire hamlet of Restrick.

“Which Part of Lincolnshire?” Holmes asked.

“Holland. It is about five miles west of Boston, but on a small dirt-track road that is only there to serve the hamlet and the restored Cistercian abbey, which lies about a mile to the north. It ends at the abbey; It used to continue through to the main road at Tattershall, but it no longer does.”

“So pray tell us what has happened to disturb you”, Holmes asked. “I assume that it concerns this 'Rover'?”

The young man nodded.

“It is the strangest thing”, he said, frowning. “Rover was very happy in the cottage and I took him out for walks every day. Then three weeks ago he suddenly disappeared.”

“Stolen?” I asked. The young man shook his head.

“He had run off to the abbey for some reason”, he said. “One of the brothers brought him back and was very apologetic about it. The place is all open of course, and they had found the dog sitting in the herb-garden. I could not understand it so dismissed it as unimportant. Then two days later it happened again.”

“The herb-garden?” I asked. He nodded.

“Unless the dog has some strange passion for herbs and spices, I cannot make head nor tail of it.” He smiled ruefully. “I did say that it was not much of a case.”

“On the contrary”, Holmes smiled. “Has the dog run off since?”

“On one further occasion, a week days after the second one”, the young man said. “I knew where to go this time. The brothers were quite apologetic and yet....”

He stopped. We both looked at him.

“And yet what?” Holmes prompted. The young man frowned.

“I may be mistaken”, he said, “but I had the strongest suspicion that the Father Abbot was hiding something from me. I may of course have been quite mistaken, but that was the impression that I got when I met him.”

Holmes pressed his long fingers together and thought for a moment.

“This case intrigues me”, he said, to both my and our young visitor's surprise. “You say that you found the dog outside your house after the attack. How long after?”

“Three days”, the young man said. “It was by the alleyway where all the bins are put out, so animals often scavenge there. I saw a wild fox there once, and there were always lots of neighbourhood cats hunting for vermin.”

“I would like to travel to the English Holland and investigate your case further”, Holmes frowned, “but at this precise moment I am tied up in a somewhat delicate matter involving Her Majesty's Government who, being Her Majesty's Government, expect one hundred and ten per cent of my time. My brother Mycroft may well have a fit if I abandon his Very Important Matter and, much as I am tempted to test that hypothesis, I suppose that I had better not. But it will all come to a conclusion this week one way or another, so I would like to come up with the doctor and call on you come Saturday, if that is acceptable?”

The young man was still clearly surprised that his small matter has elicited such interest from the great detective, but thanked us both and gave us his card before leaving. I was going to question Holmes on the matter once he was gone, but I noticed that he looked oddly serious.

“Is there more to this matter than meets the eye?” I asked. “A runaway dog does not exactly seem important?”

He sighed.

“I am rather afraid that there is much more to it, my friend”, he said. “And that this is one of those cases when justice and the law may diverge onto very different tracks, necessitating us to choose the former.”

“I did not know that you were involved in a government case just now”, I said, trying to keep the hurt out of my voice. He smiled at me.

“I am not”, he said. “But I wished to have a few days to make certain inquiries into this case.”

“You think that the boy did not tell us the truth?” I asked, surprised. 

“I am sure that everything the young gentleman said in this room was the gospel truth”, he answered.

I looked at him suspiciously. I knew him well enough by now to spot when he was not quite answering my question. Of course I had about as much chance of working out why as I did of swimming all the way to our new client's country of birth!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes asked me to go down the library to investigate the local abbey, saying that background information was always valuable, although I had a feeling that he was just being kind to me. Fortunately the library had a fairly recent book on the history of the Cistercians which proved quite informative.

“They came back to England over forty years ago”, I said, “establishing a small abbey in Leicestershire. Restrick is only their second foundation and is nearly ten years old, although the old Cistercians had an abbey there for centuries. Like almost all religious bodies they have had their own schisms, and both the 'new' abbeys are from the Trappist order.”

“Interviewing someone who is not allowed to talk”, Holmes smiled. “That adds another layer of difficulty to the case. Is not the whole area close to or below sea-level in places?”

“That is an interesting tale”, I said. “When that tyrant King Henry the Eighth sent his men to close down the old abbey, the brothers took what they could and abandoned the place before they arrived, then deliberately broke the dykes and flooded the land, drowning the men sent to dispossess them. It is in a fairly empty area – the hamlet of Restrick and the abbey are on the only high ground, and they became an island for a time back then. The dykes were not fully repaired for many years.”

He was doing that morose staring into space thing again, which always presaged something that I would not like. I sighed.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“We have known each other for too long if you can read me like that!” he deflected.

“Holmes!”

“I am just nervous about this case”, he said. 

I stared at him in astonishment.

“You are nervous about a lost dog?” I asked incredulously. He shook his head.

“I am nervous because I fear that you will not be happy with the eventual outcome of this case”, he said. “You are too good and true for some of the deceptions that I have to make in my line of work, my friend.”

 _Now_ I was nervous.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

That Thursday Holmes received a large sheaf of documents from somewhere. He spent all that day looking through them and I did not ask him about them. If he wanted to tell me anything then he would. But his frown deepened even more after he had read them, which I knew was not a good sign.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

It said something about the railway age that even somewhere the size of Langrick, whose population could have barely made double figures, had its own railway station. Changes at Peterborough and Boston were all that was needed before we were alighting at a small and seemingly deserted wayside halt outside which an ancient (and somewhat leaning) white finger-post sign pointed to the village in one direction and 'Restrick and Restrick Abbey Only' in the other. I found the countryside eerily.... well, flat. I knew of course that this was the Fens and that a large part was as everyone knows below sea-level, only maintained by a network of ditches and dykes, but it sill unnerved me to see mile upon mile of nothingness. I could even see the whitewashed walls of the abbey, which had to have been at least a mile away.

Mr. Strange had offered to come an collect us but Sherlock preferred to walk as it was only half a mile to his cottage, one of only five buildings in the hamlet of Restrick. A tiny church-cum-chapel, a farmhouse and two cottages made up the rest of this not-quite metropolis.

Rover was very much as I had expected, one of what is called an 'all-sorts' dog. I tend to dislike most pedigree species, feeling that too many are bred to standards that are demanding to the point of unhealthiness, so I liked this part Labrador, part Alsatian and part something else. Possibly Shetland pony from its size! 

“He has not run off since you came to us?” I asked.

“He has not”, Mr. Strange said. “I should have telegraphed you otherwise.”

“I think that it would be beneficial if we were to attend on Father Abbot up at the monastery”, Holmes said. “We should go there today.”

I was a little surprised at the haste but I supposed that, since the cottage was only small, he was considering finding lodgings somewhere else rather than having to bed down in Mr. Strange's tiny cottage.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Restrick Abbey was a small place but well-kept, with the ruins of the old and much larger abbey adjoining it. Holmes gave his card to the gate-keeper and asked if the Father Abbot might spare some time, and soon after the three of us were admitted into a small but well-maintained study, where an elderly man in white vestments stared at us with interest.

“What, may I ask, brings you to our little abbey, gentlemen?” he asked politely. “I hope that it is not in pursuit of some hardened criminal?”

Holmes seated himself comfortably before answering.

“Not exactly”, he said. “I am afraid that pursuit of the criminal in question would be extremely difficult.”

He briefly ran through the events concerning the assassination of Mr. Strange's parents; I noted that he made it as relatively painless as possible for the young man with us.

“Now”, Holmes said, “we come to the problem at hand. You see, Father, I can see one way in which matters might have unfolded from that dreadful event. Fortunately it can be supported from the available evidence and, as my irritating brother Mycroft who works for the government knows of Mr. Strange's connection to this 'Huret' that everyone wishes to find, he will be expecting answers. And like one of those Turkish rug salesmen, he will not go away until he has answers.”

“Have you found this man?” the Father asked.

“I do not know exactly where he is”, Holmes admitted, “but I do know how he got there. Let me advance the following suggestion.”

“It is truly said that no matter how hard you hide, your sins will find you out”, he began. “So it was with Monsieur Huret. Having committed his heinous crime on behalf of the French government, he knows that there are many people after him, some who want to kill him and worse, some who want to torture him to confess his employers' plans and then kill him. I asked myself; if I were in his situation where would I hide out?”

“The killings took place in a town in the Maine region of France, and in that town there is a Cistercian monastery. It is that that gives the criminal his idea. He will steal a set of vestments, flee the country as a hermit, and hide out in a small establishment somewhere overseas. England only has two such places so he chooses one of those and comes to Restrick. I believe that I am not wrong in stating that, a short time back, a wandering hermit came here seeking shelter before he resumed his journey?”

The Abbot nodded. I noted that he suddenly looked a little wary of my friend.

“Most unfortunately for Monsieur Huret, the Fates have taken note of his crime and have marked him down for justice”, Holmes went on. “For barely a mile away is a cottage owned by the family of the boy who he has made an orphan, and unbeknownst to him, the young man who recently shot at him moves into that same cottage. But even now his luck may have held. This is after all a Trappist order so contact with the outside world is minimal, and there was no reason for the young man to ever visit the holy house.”

“But the killer's luck does not hold. One of the facets of Monsieur Huret's character is that he is a master of disguise, and as part of his efforts to get close to his well-protected target this time he once acquired a dog. It is human nature to think better of a man who has a well cared for animal in his possession, after all. After the shootings he decides to abandon it, and it is found by young Mr. Strange here. The law of averages duly plays out, and one day Mr. Strange takes his dog for a walk in the direction of this place. We know how potent the canine sense of smell is, and Rover immediately tries to rejoin his old master.”

Holmes hesitated.

“I am hazarding at the next part”, he said with a smile, “but I think I hazard well. Your 'hermit' claimed that it was time that he was on his way, and departed shortly after the dog made his last visit. Am I correct?”

The monk drew a deep breath.

“The doctor's writings underplay your talent, sir”, he said. “You are correct in every particular.”

Holmes smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

We had a brief tour of the place, then Mr. Strange drove us back to the cottage. It was as I have said only a small place so Holmes and I opted to spend only a further half an hour with him before taking our leave. I was still mulling over the escape of the assassin when my friend turned to our host.

“There is one thing that needs to be said quite categorically”, he said, and his tone was suddenly severe. “Mr. Strange, I do hope that after today, you and I _never_ have cause to meet again?”

That seemed a little rude I thought, but the young man accepted it well enough and walked us back to the station where he bade us farewell. Once he had gone I turned to Holmes.

“What was all that about?” I asked. “He seemed a pleasant enough young fellow.”

“For a murderer”, Holmes said calmly. 

I looked at him in astonishment. It was fortunate that I was sat on a solid railway station bench, for my world spun around me.

“A.... murderer?” I asked.

“He murdered the man who killed his parents”, Holmes said simply. “Doubtless Monsieur Huret's body is lying weighted down at the bottom of a dyke somewhere in the area. You saw how open and featureless the countryside is; the odds on finding it without the help of the man who put it there are virtually zero.”

“But how?” I asked. “I mean, how can you know?”

He smiled at me.

“The probability of his ending up a mile from the man who killed his parents is frankly infinitesimal”, he said. “I checked, and he neglected to mention that he tracked the man from Maine to Lincolnshire using a private detective agency and only then arranged for his grandparents to buy the cottage close by the abbey. He suspected that the dog might have been used by Monsieur Huret as part of his disguise and that fitted neatly into his story, although I am sure that he would have obtained a dog elsewhere had it been necessary.”

My head swam.

“But why bring you in on it?” I asked. “You might turn him over to the police.”

Holmes shook his head.

“He knows from your estimable works that I follow justice before the law”, he said. “It is an excellent move on his part, I have to admit. I investigate, a cover story emerges that will satisfy Huret's pursuers and prevent them doing anything awkward like looking for bodies in the Lincolnshire Fens, and all is well. That is why I spoke to him the way I did at the cottage; like Macbeth the first crime is too often the start of a slippery slope. But not, I think, in this case. He has what he wanted, the blood of the man who killed his parents.”

“Is the Father Abbot in on it too?” I asked. 

“I do not doubt that Mr. Strange confessed all to him, and stated his plans beforehand”, Holmes said. “The Abbot would have been in a most difficult position. The confession is sacrosanct, but he would not take an active part in ending another man's life no matter what foul act he had committed. Standing aside and letting someone else do it – and stretching the truth a little to help cover it up later - that was another matter.”

“So we let another killer go free”, I sighed. 

Almost too late did I see his shoulders sag. As I heard the train approaching, I leant over and took his hand.

“And I would have done exactly the same!” I said firmly.

He looked uncertainly at me, then smiled.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
